


Many nights we made love

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pictures, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin sends a gift to his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many nights we made love

**Author's Note:**

> Request for anon on tumblr which fills the pictures/video square on my Season of Kink card.

“Your brother left this for you,” Findaráto said, crossing the crowded hallway to stand in front of Macalaurë with a sketchbook held up in his right hand. “Curufinwë,” he clarified, seeing as Macalaurë seemed puzzled.

But Macalaurë knew all too well who the sketchbook belonged to. There was no mistaking the leather cover engraved with the star flower and dotted with small red diamonds, which gave off fire-like sparks as he took it from his cousin and the light inundating the hall from the ample floor-to-ceiling windows danced on them.

He knew what the sketchbook's content were, too, and his bewilderment was in fact a mix of disbelief and annoyance at Curufinwë's recklessness in leaving it with Findaráto, in a public place – the palace at midday on the eve of the Midsummer Festival, when the whole premises bustled with frenetic activity and it could fall into all sorts of wrong hands.

“Cousin?” he vaguely heard Findaráto ask, and looked up from the ornate design he had apparently lost himself in inspecting.

“Pardon?”

“I asked you if rehearsals went well.”

“Oh...couldn't have been better. The choir could sing on its own. A superb selection of voices, this year,” he said, though he would have kicked half the designated singers out of the choir and forbidden them to sing at all if decision had been up to him.

“Curufinwë was rather anxious that you should have it. Is that something you need for tomorrow?” Findaráto queried, with plain curiosity, nodding his head towards the sketchbook.

Macalaurë shifted his grip on it, and ran his tongue over his abruptly parched lips, tasting flavours that weren't there but lingered sharply in his memory. “A couple sketches I asked him for choreography,” he lied again. “Thank you, cousin, and good luck with your own performance,” he added, with a suitably cordial smile, and swiftly walked past Findaráto. 

*

The light of the lamp he had unscreened on the wall lent a blueish tint to the figures entwining on the paper. The silken cord which had closed the sketchbook, keeping them concealed, swung back and forth as he turned page after page, but Macalaurë paid no attention to it. 

Before his eyes was an orderly, meticulous record of his and Curufinwë's private encounters during the last few months, sketched or inked or coloured to be arrestingly lifelike, or more subtly evocative (but not less affecting).

The night after he had lost a linguistic contest to his younger brother, and had surrendered himself to his whims and wiles. Mellow cuddles on listless days when they petted and teased each other until sleep took over. And details – his mouth dripping with Curufinwë's fluids, his lips stretched around Curufinwë's cock, his tongue licking Curufinwë's ass. 

He quickly got to the last page, which made his already stiff cock pulsate delightfully against his breeches.

“Curvo,” he moaned, and heard Curufinwë's response to his murmur in his head, as if it came from the barely parted lips on the paper.

For a few moments he forgot he was in a frowsty sideroom in the bustling Palace, which servants would soon come to air. He continued to hold on to the sketchbook with his left hand, but lowered his right between his legs, biting on his lower lip as with a few strokes on his cock he came in his own pants. 

*

“I take it you received my gift without complication.”

Curufinwë said later, in the night, when Macalaurë finally returned home to find him waiting in the music room. 

“I found the means of delivery you chose to be a tad too risky.”

Curufinwë smiled archly. “But you know Findaráto would never peek inside another person's belongings.” 

“He was curious enough to. And what if it had been left unattended?" 

“Findaráto is too upright to do anything of the sort. In the event that he had, though, and someone had looked inside it, I presume you would have probably lost your position as court musician, as Lambengolmo, and your reputation as a whole” Curufinwë enumerated, blithely, then gave one of his silvery and absolutely innocent-sounding laughs. “Or you could have claimed that the drawings are nothing but a product of my own perverse imagination...I'm quite positive people would have sooner believed that than attributed any sort of debauchery to you, brother dearest” he finished, with a flourish of his right hand.

“And your gain?” Macalaurë asked, squeezing himself next to him on the easy chair where he sprawled.

Curufinwë straightened, and shifted to sit on his lap. “To savour your moment of disbelief, naturally.”

Macalaurë frowned. “Where were you?”

Curufinwë shook his head dismissively. “Did you like it?” he demanded instead, desiring to hear the obvious reply in his brother's silky voice, “did it make you _think_ of me?” He put a finger to Macalaurë's lips, trailed it down his chin and turned his hand to brush his neck with his knuckles, then laid his palm over his heart. 

“Oh, it did give a couple...stimulating ideas.”

“Which are?”

It was Macalaurë's turn to smile. “You shall find out tomorrow during my performance, little brother.”


End file.
